People of the Thunder(126)
“Go away, old man.” The Albaamo grinned.
“And you.” The other smacked his club into his hard left palm as he grinned at Trader. “You’ve got a club. Try and use it, please.”
Old White sighed, raising his hand. “Have either of you ever seen chili?”
Both bent to stare at the fine red powder on the Seeker’s hand. Old White blew.
“You old fool!” one cried. The other backpedaled, wiping at his face.
The second man barely hesitated, his club swinging in an arc, cracking loudly as Trader blocked it. But before he could strike a counterblow, the man sneezed. Then both were sneezing and then pawing at their faces.
“Witched!” the first howled. “We’re witched!”
The second man had dropped his club, hands to his face. He staggered back against the wall, sniffing and coughing.
Whippoorwill walked past them, unconcerned, through the doorway.
“I’m going to have to get some of that,” Trader told Old White.
“I’m afraid the source is far, far from here.”
Trader ducked through the doorway and stepped into the Albaamaha Council House. The place was rude in comparison to the fine buildings other peoples constructed for the purpose. The benches were uncovered, the floor just dirt without matting. High overhead the wall poles had been bent together and tied, saplings running between them and covered with thatch. A crackling fire burned in the center.
About the margins, a collection of twelve old men were seated along with assorted women of similar age.
Lotus Root held the floor, a warrior’s bow in her hands, arrows scattered at her feet. She gaped in disbelief.
“Master!” Paunch cried from the side. “Trust me, I tried to . . . Whippoorwill?” He struggled to his feet, rushing across the floor to hug his granddaughter. “By the Ancestors, I was so worried about you! Where have you been?”
“Bringing the Traders,” she said simply, and walked over to Lotus Root. “You will let them speak. Red Awl’s ghost knows. Like me, he too has seen. He was right all along.”
“You dare call up my husband’s ghost?” Lotus Root’s eyes widened.
Whippoorwill slung the pack from her back, handing it over. “This is what you seek. He is here, returned from where the Chikosi left him.”
Trader watched Lotus Root take the pack, open it, and glance inside. She started, swallowed hard, and sank to the floor as if her legs had lost all strength.
Old White walked over to Lotus Root. The woman looked dazed. He reached down, pulled the fabric on the pack back with one finger to glance inside, and then let it fall closed again.
Straightening, he turned to the stunned mikkos, looks of consternation on their faces. “I am Old White, called the Seeker. As Amber Bead knows, Power has brought us here.”
“I have heard of you,” one of the old men said. “But this is Albaamaha business. Why are you here?”
“To bring Power back into balance,” Old White said with authority. “Chaos is about to be let loose.”
“I have seen,” Whippoorwill said, walking to Old White’s side. “Grandfather was my witness that day. He was there. Together we watched Screaming Falcon retreat from Alligator Town. If you will save our people, you will listen to what I saw in my vision.”
One of the guards came stumbling in, his face wet with tears, eyes red and welling. Amber Bead waved him back. The man—his expression that of misery—blinked and sank to his knees.
Old White nodded, saying, “First, let us hear Whippoorwill’s vision. And then, my friends, let us consider how to bring this trouble with the Chikosi to an end.”
Whippoorwill began to speak.
Great Cougar stood on the high bluff overlooking the Horned Serpent River. He wondered if this was how a hawk felt, staring down at the world below. The last of his long line of warriors had made the Horned Serpent River crossing and were climbing out of canoes. The water near the bank had been churned muddy, like a bloom of brown rolling out into the current to be borne downriver. His warriors scrambled up the slope. From his high vantage they looked like miniatures, their roached hair pinned, shields, bows, and arrows clacking, war clubs hanging from their belted loincloths. Their moccasined feet added to the beaten stipple on the bank as they filed into the woods. The last of them pulled the canoes up, other willing hands dragging the dugouts into the trees, flipping them over to drain, and stacking them like cordwood.
The effort had been massive, the largest such undertaking he had ever directed. For most of the day he had stood, watching canoe load after canoe load of warriors with their weapons and supplies ferried from one bank to the other.